


A Divine Hand

by sydkn3e



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 14:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15909996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sydkn3e/pseuds/sydkn3e
Summary: Alastair huffs a laugh through his nose, rubbing a rough hand irritably over his mouth. He pulls up a chair and sits at Dean’s feet, between where his legs are spread and bound to what appears to be half-rotted boards that cross into an ‘X’ underneath him. Alastair clasps his hands between his legs and leans forward, watching Dean with dark, dead eyes.“Apologies about all this.” Alastair pulls half-heartedly at one of the chains around his ankle. He doesn’t sound at all apologetic. “But you gave us no choice, you see. Fighting us is only going to make things worse.”Dean scoffs. “I just assumed you guys were into the kinky stuff.”Alastair ignores the snarky comment. “Despite what you may believe, Dean, I don’t take pleasure in any of this. You could hurt one of us, or more importantly, hurt yourself. We couldn’t take that risk.”Dean looks down at him and raises an eyebrow. “Like any of you give a shit about what happens to me.”Alastair quirks a smile and leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and securing his locked hands over his knee. “Why don’t we start from the beginning, hm? Why are you here?”





	A Divine Hand

“ _ Dean Winchester. _ ”

Dean tries to hide the fact that the eerie sliminess of the demon’s adenoidal voice alone gives him chills, and he stubbornly resists pulling at his bindings as he comes to. The bindings aren’t particularly tight in that they don’t exactly cut into his wrists and ankles, but there’s no escape. He knows this. He’s tried.

The smell of the godforsaken place stings his nostrils, a weird mix of chloroform and ammonia and blood and piss. He can hear someone retching nearby and it’s only a matter of time before that scent blends in with the rest of them. It’s overwhelming. The lighting is blinding and he squints against it as he opens his eyes and focuses on the source of the voice, an ugly fucker with a pointed chin and crooked teeth, the four top teeth in the front set a little further back than his canines, jaw set forward. A short and scraggly salt and pepper beard covers his face, his nose long and pointed, wrinkles extending from the corners of his black eyes out to large, almost elf-like ears. He’s grinning devilishly- pretty fucking fitting, given the circumstances- and despite the fact that he’s not one for patience, he doesn’t push Dean for an answer. He knows how to get Dean to talk, and he knows that Dean knows his methods well enough to not make him use them for something so simple. 

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Dean says lamely, feeling smug about it all the same.

Alastair chuckles darkly and rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head to the side and cracking his neck. The sound makes Dean cringe inwardly, but he clenches his teeth and stares the man down, his eyes following his every movement as he comes closer, clasping his hands behind his back and leaning forward.

“Do you know where you are?” 

He’s inches from Dean’s face now, the breathiness of his voice cascading Dean with putrid hot air. 

“That a trick question?”

Dean’s head is swimming, and he’s having a hard time telling if Alastair dosed him with something or hit him over the head to knock him out. The blood he’s smelling could very well be his own, but he doesn’t feel the familiar wet stickiness that’s usually accompanied with it. He supposes it could be dried by now, since he has no idea how long he was out.

“There are no trick questions,” Alastair drones, emotionless, dragging out each word like he has personal attachment to them. “I just want you to tell me where you are.”

“I imagine you get off on this, seeing someone like me occupying the same miserable space as the rest of you bottom-feeders,” Dean says instead, pulling in vain at the chains around his wrists. “Cause see, you...you were born into this wasteland. I guess it’s fun for you to drag others down with you and watch them burn right before your eyes.”

“Answer the question, Dean.”

“Hell, okay?” Dean snaps, and even through his pissiness he feels the burn of failure at the admittance. “I’m in Hell. Guess this is the part where you tell me it’s no better than I deserve.”

Alastair doesn’t speak for so long that it actually makes Dean look up at him, and his eyebrows are knitted together, a thoughtful look on his face, his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek.

“Why do you think you’re in Hell?”

“I  _ know _ I’m in Hell.”

“Why?”

“Because  _ you’re  _ here.”

Alastair huffs a laugh through his nose, rubbing a rough hand irritably over his mouth. He pulls up a chair and sits at Dean’s feet, between where his legs are spread and bound to what appears to be half-rotted boards that cross into an ‘X’ underneath him. Alastair clasps his hands between his legs and leans forward, watching Dean with dark, dead eyes.

“Apologies about all this.” Alastair pulls half-heartedly at one of the chains around his ankle. He doesn’t sound at all apologetic. “But you gave us no choice, you see. Fighting us is only going to make things worse.”

Dean scoffs. “I just assumed you guys were into the kinky stuff.”

Alastair ignores the snarky comment. “Despite what you may believe, Dean, I don’t take pleasure in any of this. You could hurt one of us, or more importantly, hurt yourself. We couldn’t take that risk.”

Dean looks down at him and raises an eyebrow. “Like any of you give a shit about what happens to me.”

Alastair quirks a smile and leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and securing his locked hands over his knee. “Why don’t we start from the beginning, hm? Why are you here?”

Dean groans and rolls his eyes, letting his head fall back with a  _ thunk _ . “You  _ know  _ why I’m here.”

“Humor me.”

Dean huffs and blinks up at the ceiling. It shifts weirdly, almost flashing between yellowed, peeling plaster and reddish-tinted black smoke. Demon smoke, he realizes. 

Man, is he fucked.

“Made a deal.”

“A deal?”

“Yeah. For Sammy’s life. Obviously, it didn’t work out so well for me, seeing as I was supposed to get ten years on the outside and here I am. Guess I can only hope that since Sam’s not here, though, at least one part of it worked out like it was supposed to.”

Alastair is quiet for a long time, and when Dean finally looks down at him again he finds him scratching idly at his scraggly patchy beard. The red-black of the room swirls relentlessly around him and it’s enough to make him dizzy. He blinks hard, scrunching up his face, then opens his eyes wide, and the ugly yellowed plaster is back, if only briefly, before plunging him back into swirly darkness.

“Now, when you say you ‘made a deal for Sam’s life’-”

“He was dead. I made a deal, my life for his, and the next thing I know I’m here, with all you ugly fuckers.”

Alastair sighs and leans forward in his chair again, and Dean pointedly avoids his scrutinizing gaze. The twenty questions is somehow worse than the torture itself, and he considers how fucked up he must be to actually pray to be tortured instead. Although, ‘pray’ isn’t necessarily the right word for it...of all the things that shouldn’t exist in the world that do, he’d never seen any evidence of any kind of higher power. The world isn’t kind enough for that.

Monsters had been after both him and Sam for as long as he could remember. Ever since his mother was burned on the ceiling by a demon when he was four years old, directly over 6-month-old Sammy’s crib. Ever since they grew up with their dad doing everything he could to find the thing that killed her, eventually being killed by the thing himself. He raised the two of them in the life of hunting; they were destined for it, right from the jump. Ending up in Hell for Sammy was no more than Dean should’ve expected, considering the circumstances that had led up to it.

“Sam was never dead, Dean.”

“Bullshit. I saw it with my own two eyes. How the hell else did I end up here?”

Alastair holds his hands out for a beat, then clasps them together again. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

Dean frowns, then scoffs. “I’m done hearing your crap.”

“It’s true. Sam was never dead. What I’m trying to understand is what happened that made you believe-”

“I sold my  _ soul  _ for him. I’m here, for  _ him.  _ So that he could live a normal life, away from me, because I’m fucking poison and anyone close to me always suffers.”

Alastair gives him that weird smile again and tilts his head to the side. “That’s not true. And Sam, he can come visit you whenever you want, whenever  _ he _ wants-”

“No…”

The man grins wider and nods. “Yes, he can. In fact, I could call him now-”

“No!” Dean arches against the rough wood, pulling hopelessly at his chains. They cut into his wrists, his muscles burn, the effort feeling like it’s pulling his arms out of their sockets, but he doesn’t stop. He’s sweating and the exertion is making him dizzy again, but he struggles earnestly, gritting his teeth and panting.

“Dean, calm down-”

Alastair’s voice is far away and much too calm for the man who’d spent the last almost forty years torturing him. It only serves to piss Dean off further. He vaguely registers the demon moving closer, the echo of his voice bouncing off non-existent walls, the black smoke around him tumbling and swirling and finally converging down and in on him. He screams; or rather, he opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. He’s suffocated by black smoke, a demon once again forcing its way inside him, and all the many years of torture flood back to him, all the different things Alastair and his groupies have done to him as he lay defenselessly bound. 

Dean realizes he’s squeezed his eyes shut and he opens them again, hot tears escaping and running down into his ears. Alastair’s mere inches away now...not smiling, for once, but watching him intently as he holds up something shiny and sharp. He feels restraints in addition to the chains already there, and he finds two more demons holding each arm. Meg on one side, Ruby on the other, both grinning evilly. They’re stronger than they look, and between them and the chains his struggle is fruitless. He fights regardless, though, and at one point Meg loses her grip, allowing Dean to reach up as Alastair leans down. He scratches him across his face and the demon howls, pulling back and dropping his knife as he presses a hand to his face.

“ _ Hold him still!”  _ he bellows, and Meg struggles to grab him again. Dean gets a couple of good hits in before she can secure his arm, and she pushes down on it, hard enough Dean swears he can hear something pop. He can’t feel the pain, though, not through the heat and the pain he knows is inevitably coming, right in front of his eyes, at the tip of Alastair’s blade. Ruby’s nails dig into the flesh of his bicep and he flexes involuntarily as he tenses, feeling them finally break the skin. 

Alastair closes in again and Dean screams as the searing blade is pressed to his thigh, as the girls’ grips tighten on his arms and their trilling laughs flood his ears. The site of the wound is burning, too hot, and despite the blackness clouding his vision Dean can imagine the blood running down his thigh. He feels the ripping, tearing, pulling of the demons at his arms and the dark chuckle of Alastair, so close Dean swears he can smell his reeking breath again. 

“I think he needs more,” Alastair taunts, and Dean thrashes wildly, managing to break free of the girls again. Suddenly one arm has way more leeway than he expects, and the full force of the pain of his apparent dislocation doesn’t hit him until he attempts to throw his arm forward at the demon. He shrieks, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Ruby covering her mouth, trying to hide her laughter. Then they’re all on him again, holding him down with their own body weight, and Dean braces himself for the next blow- however or wherever it may be- but instead there’s a bright, glowing light. He squints against it until he’s finally forced to close his eyes completely, and his thrashing lessens as the pain and heat in his thigh and his arm radiate through his body.

_ “Enough.” _

The voice is deep and authoritative, not nasally like Alastair’s. It’s pleasant to hear, rumbling but gentle, and something about it has Dean’s soul quieting. Dean pries his eyes open and they’re blurry with unshed tears, but he can see that the demons are shying away. They seem confused, wary, looking at someone Dean can’t see yet. He blinks, long and hard, letting the tears roll out of the corners of his eyes.

Hands are still on him though, and Dean feels the warmth of another gently on his chest.

“Dean?”

Dean blinks once, twice, clearing the wetness and blurriness. All he sees are colors at first- not pitch black or blood red- but a beautiful dark brown, a complimenting tan surrounding deep cobalt blue eyes. The colors slowly take the form of a man, who squints down at him with concern, the hand moving up to his good shoulder and giving it a squeeze. A pink tongue darts out to wet the man’s dry lips, and he gives Dean a half nod of acknowledgement.

“Dean, I’m Castiel. Would you like to come with me?”

Dean stares wide-eyed at him, eyes searching the man’s kind face, thoughts quieting in his head and his heartbeat slowing in his chest. His panting becomes less erratic and his muscles untense as he stares at him, and before he even considers whether or not he should trust the man, he nods.

Castiel presses his lips together and stands, looking back at Alastair, his jaw set. 

“Leave us.  _ Now. _ ” 

Alastair doesn’t speak, but sheaths his blade and leaves in a hurry, the girls hesitantly letting go and following him out. Against the backdrop of swirling black clouds there are two big arching things coming from either side of him as he extends his arms, ruffling as the demon smoke whooshes around him and disappears completely, leaving almost blinding white light.

_ Wings.  _

It’s the last thing Dean remembers before the light becomes too bright for him, and he’s plunged into darkness.

\----

Sam bursts inside the hospital, hair wild and eyes red-rimmed and swollen, immediately striding up to the long desk parallel to the long sterile hallway.

“Where’s my brother? Where’s Dean Winchester?”

The nurse wisely presses her lips into a thin line and types the name into her computer, reading the screen wordlessly for a few moments before nodding and pointing down to the hall.

“Rec room. Follow the hall all the way down, take a left. It’s the second to last on the right.”

Sam isn’t sure what he expects as he walks down the hall. Perhaps the sounds of his brother screaming down the corridor, or the horrified looks on the faces of the nurses as they frantically scramble to lend help to others trying to subdue him. He wouldn’t be surprised to see him bound to the bed again to keep him from hurting himself, or sitting up in his chair by the window with a nurse keeping him company as he mumbles to himself, words and names that Sam doesn’t understand or recognize.

_ Acute primary psychosis.  _

That’s what the doctor had said. Sam knew what that meant. A psychotic break. His brother- if he hadn’t before- had officially lost his mind.

He’d expected that, somewhat. It made leaving for school harder, since the older Dean got, the worse he’d become. He’d never been what one would call stable- not since they were kids- not since their mother died in a fire and their father died from the smoke inhalation he sustained trying to save her. 

But age and change made it worse. Sam ultimately making the difficult decision to go away to school had finally done it, and he’d never forgive himself for it. Dean didn’t want to believe that Sam would leave of his own volition, that he would willingly choose to move away from his brother and start his own life. Dean’s condition made Sam reconsider, but Bobby insisted that he go. He couldn’t stay just because Dean might not like it.

But neither of them were prepared for the full on fit Dean threw, screaming about his brother being carted off to Hell, demons pulling him away from him, from his family. No amount of reassurance from Bobby could convince him otherwise. He screamed, threw things, attempted to hurt himself. When Bobby had finally calmed him down, he caught him in the kitchen hours later cutting himself.

For a summoning spell, he’d said. To make a deal to get Sam back. Spouting off about  _ demons  _ and  _ black eyes  _ and  _ ten year deals. _

When Bobby called the hospital, Dean was carted off bound to a gurney, screaming about being dragged to Hell himself. Screaming to Bobby to “ _ take care of Sammy”. _

Sam couldn’t bear to see his brother that way, out of his mind on sedatives and depression medication and whatever else they pumped him full of in the hospital. Bobby called to fill him in every once in awhile, but from what Sam could tell of his description, Dean was all but catatonic during his visits. He didn’t eat, didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge Bobby’s presence. He’d sometimes mumble to himself about Hell and the demons that tortured him there. The same names came up over and over: Alastair, Meg, Ruby. A doctor at the clinic and two of the orderlies. Nice enough people, Bobby’d said, if not a little curt and textbook with their methods.

But it was for real this time, a full-blown psychotic break. 

Sam bought the first plane ticket he could find back to Sioux Falls for the following day after Bobby called him with the news of Dean’s outburst. He’d effectively dislocated his shoulder and scratched his own arms and face so badly that he’d required stitches in a few places- all before they’d been able to successfully sedate him.

Sam reaches the end of the hall and turns left, picking up the pace a little when he hears agitated screams coming from the wing. It’s not the right room, though, and he slows back to a walk when he passes it, listening intently for the sound of Dean’s voice.

Finally he reaches the rec room, and he’s surprised to find a decently light and airy room inside, with tons of windows- albeit barred for the patients’ safety- and at least one nurse per patient inside. Most of them are sitting by the television on covered couches by the windows, enjoying the views of outside. He doesn’t see Dean at first, not until he hears his laugh, and he didn’t know what to expect coming here, but it definitely isn’t what he sees. 

His brother is sitting across the table from a dark-haired man in a white doctor’s coat, playing what looks like Chess. Despite all the scratches and stitches on his face, he’s practically glowing, his eyes lit up and his grin wide. Sam doesn’t remember Dean ever laughing like that, in all the years he’d lived with him. The doctor has his back to Sam, but Sam can see him talking to Dean, who’s listening intently before laughing again, his face a picture of genuine delight. 

Dean looks down at the game board and moves a piece with his good hand, the other arm resting in a sling. Something clatters on the board and he looks up with a cheeky grin as the doctor throws his hands up in defeat, and Dean pumps his fist into the air in triumph. It’s at that moment that he notices Sam standing there, and he’s on his feet and halfway to him before the doctor can even stand.

“Sammy?!” he breathes disbelievingly, wrapping him in a bone-crushing, one-armed hug. He pulls back and lays a hand on Sam’s cheek, looking him over as if he doesn’t believe he’s real. 

“Dean, I thought-”

“Thought I’d look a little worse for the wear? Yeah, I look fantastic, huh?” He grins and drops his hand to Sam’s shoulder, clapping it there. “Man, I’m so glad to see you. I thought for sure I’d be stuck in that place forever, never get to see you again-”

Sam frowns and shakes his head. “Stuck...stuck where, Dean?”

Dean gives him a look and cocks his head, taking a half-step back. “In Hell. Where I’ve been the last forty years? Where’ve you been?”

Sam opens his mouth to speak, but he’s interrupted as the dark-haired doctor finally joins them, laying a hand gently on Dean’s shoulder and giving him a small nod. Sam doesn’t miss the way Dean’s face lights up at the touch, his excitement as he introduces the man.

“Heya, Sammy, this here’s Cas, and he-” he looks around the room quickly and lowers his voice, leaning in close, “he’s an angel. Like an  _ actual  _ angel, with wings, a harp, you know...all that shit.” He grins that cheeky grin again and looks over at Cas, who’s giving him a soft smile and shaking his head slowly.

“An...angel,” Sam says slowly, trying to hide his bewilderment.

“Yeah. Who woulda thunk, right? All those years huntin’, you’d think someone woulda come across one at some point. But Cas here, I’d still be in Hell right now if it weren’t for him. Anyway,” he waves a hand, then claps Cas on the shoulder. “Cas saved me. He put his hand on my shoulder just like this, and he pulled me up out of Hell. Can you believe that? Can you believe an actual  _ angel  _ wanted to save little old me?”

Sam looks to Cas, who licks his lips and nods marginally. There’s something about the look that the man is giving him that tells Sam to just go with it...so he does.

“Y-yeah, Dean. Of course I can believe that. You’re a good person. If anyone deserves saving, it’s you.” He tries not to tear up at the end- since Dean’s obviously not bothered- and fails.

“That’s exactly what he said,” Dean grins, nudging Cas’s shoulder with his own. “We’re gonna make a good team, the three of us. Won’t be a monster or demon out there can handle the likes of us. Hey, hey- I’m fine. No chick-flick moments, dude.” He gives Sam a wink, then taps him playfully with the back of a hand as he walks past. “I’m gonna go get my stuff. I’ll be ready to hit the road in ten.” He stops in his tracks, turning around. “You better not’ve douched my Baby up while I was gone.”

Sam frowns, then relaxes as it hits him.  _ The car.  _ Of course.

“No,” Sam clears his throat, “no, ‘course not. She’s the exact same.”

Dean smiles and clicks his tongue as he points at him, then he’s out the door, an orderly in white following closely behind him. 

Cas watches door until Dean is out of view, then turns his attention back to Sam, bright blue eyes looking somewhat sad and completely apologetic, holding a hand out in a calming gesture.

“What the hell are you doing to my brother?” 

“I’m trying to help him, Sam,” Cas says gently, looking once more over Sam’s shoulder then inclining his head, intending for Sam to follow. They sit at his and Dean’s table, where Dean had honestly  _ clobbered  _ the man in Chess. Sam huffs a sad laugh at the sight of the board.

“I’m Dr. Castiel Novak, or Cas, as Dean prefers to call me,” Dr. Novak smiles warmly. “I’m your brother’s new therapist. I took over his case yesterday, and I will be in charge of his care from here on out.”

Sam tongues the inside of his cheek. “Why? Why did he need a new doctor?”

Dr. Novak sighs deeply, clasping his hands together on top of the table. “Sam, are you aware of your brother’s condition?”

Sam falters. “Well, I...I mean, I knew he was always...he struggled, from the time we were young. But it was never- never this bad. Our Uncle Bobby mentioned maybe schizophrenia?”

Dr. Novak nods slowly, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “I’ve pored over Dean’s official case file, hours and hours of time deciphering his behavior. According to what I’ve read in his file, combined with my previous knowledge of the subjects and the time I’ve spent with him… I’m convinced that I have a correct diagnosis. Dean is a paranoid schizophrenic with narcissistic personality disorder and a tendency for religious psychosis. He can be highly dangerous, to himself and to others. What he’s telling you, about Hell, angels, demons, all of it- he fully believes it is real. For him, it’s his reality.”

“And...what? You’re just letting him believe that he’s spent years being tortured in Hell?” 

“The method of treatment his previous doctor was using was ineffective at Dean’s stage, I’m afraid,” Dr. Novak explains. “I have the idea that maybe if we play into Dean’s delusion- let him act out what he believes is happening to him, what he believes is his life- a radical roleplay, if you will...perhaps we can pull him out of his own mind.”

“I don’t...I don’t understand how that will help him.”

“Dean’s a very intelligent man, as you know, Sam,” Dr. Novak says calmly. “But despite his narcissistic tendencies, he has an extremely low sense of self worth. Dean’s delusions are intensified by his belief that he doesn’t deserve to live a normal life.  _ My  _ belief is that if we let him act this out, I can convince him- or rather, help him to convince himself- that the things he’s seeing, the life he’s built in his own mind… that they’re not real. My objective is to help him prove it to himself.”

Sam swallows and looks back to the door Dean disappeared out of, scrubbing a hand over his face. Dr. Novak’s expression is unreadable when he turns back to him, somehow stoic and confident, and Sam nods.

“Do you...do you really think you can help him?”

Dr. Novak takes a silent breath, letting it out slowly as he looks past Sam to the door as Dean re-enters with a smile. He’s dressed in his old clothes and has John’s old canvas bag thrown over his shoulder, smiling from ear to ear.

“Dean doesn’t yet think he deserves to be saved, but I know he does. And eventually, he will too.”

Sam lets out a sigh of relief, and they stand as Dean joins him by his side.

“You two all acquainted now? Ready to get on the road?” Dean looks back and forth between the two of them with a childish grin, and Sam forces his own smile and a nod.

Cas smiles and steps forward, laying a hand gently on Dean’s left shoulder.

“Come, Dean. We have work for you.”


End file.
